A Misunderstanding

Percy’s Ramblings

Let’s go rambling through the English language and the way it is spelt. It can be complicated. For instance: “The soldier decided to desert his post in the desert.” Or: “He thought there was no time like the present to present the present to his girlfriend.” To make matters more confusing, local expressions can muddle words even further.

Take Yorkshire. “Sit thi sen down” might leave a visitor puzzled, while “scran” simply means food. In Bristol, some speakers add an “L” sound to the end of words, so a Ford Cortina can sound like a “Cortinal”. My friend Karen won’t mind me borrowing her Northern Irish pronunciation of her homeland: “Norn Iron”. Every region has expressions that can make understanding difficult.

Before satellite television, Google and the internet, when life seemed to move at a slower pace, we had recently moved to Bath. One evening, we met a well-dressed couple from the Caribbean. Their clothes were rather old-fashioned, but they carried themselves with great dignity.

I’ll explain more about them in a minute.

I grew up in East London, the world of Cockney rhyming slang. “Apples and pears” means stairs, though it is usually shortened to “apples”. “Bread” means money, shortened from “bread and honey”. Such expressions come naturally to those who use them, but can be bewildering to everyone else.

Cockneys also have a knack for meeting trouble with a grin and a quick remark, while taking the problem itself perfectly seriously.

This story begins on an overcast evening in Weston, on the outskirts of Bath. I was appearing at an event for a holiday company promoting the Caribbean. The couple I mentioned were unexpected guests, but they joined the audience.

My dear wife, Jean, was well regarded for her work in finance. Even after she retired, she was often asked to help resolve accounting problems, particularly as her organisation moved towards computerised systems.

I don’t know whether our meeting was contrived. At the time, we thought nothing of it. The couple chatted with us about their homeland and invited us to dinner a few days later.

Although it was late in the year, the evening was pleasantly warm. We drove the eight miles into Bath, parked near the centre and met them at one of the city’s charming restaurants. They were the only Black diners there, and I noticed other patrons glancing our way.

After we greeted one another, they explained that they represented a Caribbean government and told us why they were in Britain. They were looking for a couple to take charge of their country’s treasury. They thought we might be suitable.

Jean and I looked at each other in surprise. Our first thought was for our two daughters, aged ten and thirteen. When we raised the question of schooling, our hosts assured us there were excellent schools. It sounded promising, but it was a great deal to take in.

The evening passed quickly. They were splendid company, and we enjoyed the food and conversation. Afterwards, they suggested we continue our talks over a nightcap at their place. That was an appealing offer to two people who appreciated a goodnight drink.

Their room was tidy and softly lit. As the four of us sat around a coffee table, I began to realise how much they knew about us. Our host set down two glasses and a full bottle of our favourite Scotch: Johnnie Walker Red Label.

We talked further. They stressed that these were only preliminary discussions and that any agreement would require a contract at a later meeting. Meanwhile, the whisky in our glasses was getting low.

We discussed possible timings. The thought of moving across the Atlantic was beginning to feel real. Then our glasses were empty.

My darling Jean picked up the bottle, poured herself a drink and set it down again.

Without thinking, I murmured, “What am I, black?”

It was an old expression I had heard growing up, used to mean, “Am I being left out?” But the instant I said it, I heard how it must have sounded to our hosts.

The atmosphere changed at once. I stuttered, apologised and tried to explain what I had meant. It was no use. Perhaps I should have said, “Dentist’s job” — another Cockney expression for someone pouring only their own drink.

© Percy Chattey

The post A Misunderstanding appeared first on The Leader - The No. 1 Spanish Newspaper - Spain News, Sport, Spanish Property for Sale, Business Directory, Classifieds, and Advertising.